


Burn Bright, That Brief Candle

by BeautifullyObsessed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Abominable Bride - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Danger, Eventual Smut, Gen, London, Mystery, Obsession, Theatre, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, a taste of romance, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7246078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, spring & summer 1888.  Scotland Yard has it's hands full as the city is rocked by the incomprehensible deeds of Jack the Ripper.  Tessa DeMauro, an American actress contracted for several productions on the London stage, has problems of her own--but her pleas for help are largely ignored by the police force, whose attention is focused on ending The Ripper's killing spree.  Called an hysteric, told she is embroidering a minor inconvenience with the colour of her craft, Tessa has no choice but to turn to the brilliant (and devastatingly handsome) detective, Sherlock Holmes, to root out the source of the growing threat to her safety.  Mystery, adventure, and an unwilling attraction follows, as Holmes seeks to solve her case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue-Midsummer Night

**Author's Note:**

> All credit & admiration to the astounding creators & artists who have brought Conan Doyle's brilliant, idiosyncratic detective to life in modern London--I, of course, do not own any of those characters, and can only build upon their marvellous work to create my own. If you've read my work previously, you will find Tessa DeMauro a familiar character; although it's been ages since I explored her & Sherlock's story, and even though that series remains incomplete (I've still at least a half dozen vignettes to tell)--and even though I've concentrated exclusively on my other fictions in the past couple of years--I just couldn't resist a dip in the Victorian time period. Blame repeated viewings of "The Abominable Bride", while home sick with a fever--Victorian Sherlock got to me, awakening a need to tell another tale. It may turn out to be trope & self-indulgent, but hopefully I'll tell the story well enough for you, Kind Reader, to relish it in some small way, as I have relished writing it!

They managed to reach the shelter of 221B, alighting from the hansom cab only moments before the sky opened up in full.  Warm, fat raindrops and the peels of distant thunder had forewarned them that London was finally going to receive much-needed rainfall, as nearly every denizen of the city—anxious for relief from the week-long, oppressive heatwave—had been praying.  Sherlock, of course, was not among those offering such desperate pleas heavenward, but he would be relieved to see the dust and grit that permeated the air, and that had settled thick upon his city, to be finally washed into the gutters, sluiced into the Thames, and carried out to sea.

He patiently guided the beleaguered woman in his charge across the threshold, the urgency of their journey having faded with distance from the scene of the crime.  Tessa had spoken very little as they moved across the city, numb with shock over all that had befallen her since the curtain had dropped on her matinee performance at the _Adelphi Theatre_ hours before.  He needn’t employ his extraordinary powers of deduction to be certain of that.  Her stunned silence had left her pliable enough to make their trek to Baker Street--far closer at hand than her modest, tidy flat in Ealing--easier than he had anticipated.

Sherlock swept off his cloak, hanging it on its usual peg on the wall rack, following that with his deerstalker.  He pressed a light hand to the small of Tessa’s back, ushering her up the stairs and into his second-floor flat.  “Remain here please, Miss DeMauro,” he told her, “I shall see if I can rouse Mrs. Hudson to prepare us a fresh pot of tea, and perhaps something light to eat.”

Tessa turned to him, where he remained in the doorway, “No, please don’t disturb her, Mr. Holmes.”  She stripped the kid gloves from her hands, tucking them into her velvet bag, “He…he…” Her breath caught a moment, and she squeezed her eyes shut, struggling not to give in to the terror of the memory.  “He gave me an old crust of bread and a bit of cheese, and god help me, I was hungry enough by that time to eat…but…” she paused again, blinking back tears, and covering her mouth as though ashamed she had accepted even that small accommodation from her captor; then regaining her poise, she continued, “I don’t have much of an appetite now.”  ‘twas so simple and plaintive a statement that, despite his nature, Sherlock’s heart went out to her. 

Fully, proudly, finally mastering herself, Tessa met him eye to eye. “But I do find I’m thirsty-- although I think I’d prefer something,” she looked down, drawing a long, calming breath before meeting his eyes again, “I think I _need_ something a little stronger…if…if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” She gave a small shrug, and a wee, almost sheepish, smile.

Sherlock couldn’t help but answer with a half-smile of his own, impressed yet again that Tessa hadn’t the standard timidity of so many of her sex; unchaperoned, in a man’s rooms, fast approaching the midnight hour and clearly still shaken by the events of the evening—yet unafraid to ask for what she wanted.  “No trouble at all,” he replied, moving briskly to the neat little gentleman’s bar he kept stocked with only the best of provisions, “I’ve a finely aged claret, if you would care for that.”   

Tessa cleared her throat softly as he reached for the decanter of wine.  “Actually, Mr. Holmes, I’d rather a bit of that deliciously amber whiskey you seem to have there.”  She laughed quietly, taking a few steps closer to him, “The burn is so much more satisfying going down, don’t you think?”

 _How delightfully audacious_ , he thought, and not for the first time since he’d made her acquaintance.  “Oh, indeed it is, Miss DeMauro.  One of the true simple pleasures in life.”  Sherlock filled two cut crystal tumblers and then crossed to stand before her, handing over her drink.   Her bare fingertips brushed against his for only a moment—but long enough for a pleasant tingle to run along the nerves of his hand and up his arm.  “Interesting,” he murmured, eyes straying to that point of contact, even as Tessa withdrew her hand.

“Hmmm?” she asked, drawing his attention back to her face.  Her look of confident curiosity—as though she already knew the answer--raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and brought a sudden, surprising heat to his cheeks.  _Disconcerting_ , he thought, this biological response to her close presence and bold, unwavering regard.  It made him feel slightly out of control--a rare, but not unfamiliar, phenomenon—and not at all the reaction he _should_ be having.

Smoothly, though—without so much as a second of hesitation, lest she read more in the moment than he would have her know—Sherlock raised his glass, “What shall we toast to then?”

Tessa tilted her head, giving it thought, then bit her lip against the curve of a mischievous smile. “Why—my knight in shining armour of course.” She clinked her glass against his, brought it to her lips and took a deep draught, closing her eyes and giving a little shiver, relishing the burn of the rich liquid flowing down her throat.

Drinking the full contents of his glass in a single quaff, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing Tessa closely.  _She wants me to think that she’s not still as_ _shaken as she actually is_ , he realized; _she’s acting a blithe part--the image of a woman whose life had_ not _been at hazard within this very hour_.  And certainly, that _is_ what she did, her years of training and experience upon the stage enough to enable her to fool any man.  Any man excepting himself, of course; a man with eyes to see the subtle, physical signs of the strain she labored under.  The slight tremor in her hand as she raised her glass again, to finish her whiskey in two swallows more.  Her blown pupils, enlarged beyond their need to maximize the low light in the room.  The quick, steady throb of her carotid artery, pulsing more rapidly than her poised demeanor could account for.  Playacting to be sure, but for _his_ sake? And more curiously— _why_?

Sherlock took the glass from her, turning back to the bottle to pour them each two fingers more.  Tessa nodded her thanks when he returned the glass to her hands; she seemed to have relaxed a bit as the whiskey worked its way through her bloodstream.  “So what happens now, Mr. Holmes?  Should I expect to be summoned to Scotland Yard?  And,” she hesitated a breath, considering her predicament, “…will I needed to contact my solicitor?”

“Likely not, Miss DeMauro.  Your part in this sad play, I believe, is finally done.”  He flashed her his most reassuring smile, seeking to put her further at ease.  “I was quite thorough in the information I provided to the officers on the scene, so that even Scotland Yard should be able to fit the unfortunate pieces of this bizarre puzzle together without troubling you further.  I’ve no doubt they will refer any further inquiries to me.”

Tessa exhaled a huge sigh of relief, the pall of strain draining from her face, leaving behind that lovely softness—albeit, tinged with the evening’s sorrow—which lived ever in his mind’s eye when his thoughts turned her way.  Sherlock felt a perplexing, but pleasant, swell of affection for her fill his chest.  _Ridiculous_ , he told himself; _inappropriate_ , he chided himself.  _Unnecessary_ _and entirely uncharacteristic_ , he concluded, and not at all the thing he _should_ be feeling in this place, this hour, this situation.  He would prefer much more the customary rush of adrenaline that hit his system at the height of the sort of danger he had rescued Tessa from just an hour or so ago--and the satisfaction that always followed in the aftermath of so successful a resolution.    

He downed a third glass of whiskey, bewildered by the unfamiliar mix of emotions swirling within him--knowing there was no clarity for him in the alcohol, but seeking to numb the edges of those feelings, nonetheless.  Affection.  Protectiveness.  Physical attraction.  Sherlock ticked off the strange symptoms, denying their plausibility one by one, while watching her move across the room to study the contents of his bookcase.  Noticing the gentle sway of her hips, her easy feminine grace, the raven fall of hair that had been loosed as she struggled against her abductor--all conspiring against him in the most unexpected way.  Awakening feelings he’d worked half a lifetime to discipline into oblivion.  He wanted her.

He longed for her—to his chagrin—to continue to look to _him_ for safety and for succor.  He craved her kind regard, her quiet admiration.  And when she turned to face him from where she stood before his bookcase, a lick of lust coiled in his loins, informing him with certainty that he wanted Tessa in the same elemental way that ordinary men wanted ordinary women every single day.  He nearly couldn’t bear the weakness he discovered in himself.

But to act upon this impulse would surely mean disaster, professionally--and personally as well.  Theresa DeMauro was, first and foremost, a paying client; and one whose life had rested in his hands this very night.  She had put her trust in him—quite rightly—and he would not be enticed to violate that trust, despite the adrenaline rush following their wild adventure.  Or in reaction to the way the whiskey was softening his edges after all.  And certainly not for a taste of the soft pout of her lips, or to satisfy his curiosity about the texture of her lush tresses—or, god forbid, to sample the scent of the flawless skin of her neck.  Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man, and even given how extraordinary this woman had revealed herself to be, he was master of _any_ base desires that might lurk behind a civilized face.

As heavy rain continued to lash the windows, a bright spike of lightening flashed, the crack of thunder so immediate, it could only mean the full might of the tempest was overhead.  Tessa had not flinched at either the sound or the fury, instead drawing closer to the window to observe nature’s violent display.  Such bravery was inherent in her nature, Sherlock reflected, and was a quality he had admired from their first meeting--on another, not too distant, stormy day.  One where she had stood at that same window, gazing out at the gale that had brought her to his door, calmly telling her tale--and asking for _his_ help **...**


	2. the Ides of March

In the grip of a compelling case, Sherlock Holmes habitually focused so intently on the mystery at hand, that he often went days without eating or sleeping, all his energies trained upon deciphering even the vaguest of clues in pursuit of his solution.  He rarely felt such privations until well after his efforts had achieved successful resolution—but once felt, he gladly gave into his body’s demands, feasting ravenously on whatever foodstuffs were immediately available (with a preference for sugary confections, in deference to a childhood sweet tooth), and then retiring to his bed (or the sofa in his sitting room, if his mood dictated such) to sleep the clock around.  Those who knew him best--though there remained much about him that was unknowable, even to his closest associates--were well accustomed to this pattern, and left him undisturbed for the duration of this recovery period.

Waking from his latest sleep (eighteen hours, following an investigation of a string of jewelry thefts from mansions in Mayfair and Chelsea), Holmes grew quickly bored with the languid inactivity forced upon him by an agonizing lack of stimulation.  As remedy this day, he turned to his beloved violin, concentrating on working his way through a challenging passage of Paganini’s Violin Concerto #4, hoping to perfect his rendition of the piece, and master the run of 32nd notes that was the bane of many a lesser violinist’s existence.

Thus he stood at play, heedless of the strong winds and icy rain that whipped against the sitting room windows, occasionally glancing out at the storm that had made the noon hour look like nearly evening.  Seeing all outside, and observing it all well, he still held little expectation that anything he’d spy out in the street would be enough to alleviate this taxing boredom. 

But then a hansom cab came to a stop before his building, offering the idle detective some hope of an engaging distraction—at last.  Holmes watched the driver (wisely clad--head to toe--in oilskin, against the fierce weather) secure the reins, and then climb nimbly down, employing an umbrella before opening the cabin door.  He stood in conference for several moments with the cab’s occupant, nodding his head briskly in likely answer to a request or query, finally extending his free hand to assist his passenger from the vehicle.  Said passenger most certainly female, Holmes surmised, based upon the cabbie’s outstretched hand and the deference evidenced in his posture throughout their unheard conversation.

A well-dressed woman emerged from the cab; medium-height, average build for a healthy young lady; mid to late twenties. _Quite_ fashionably clothed, he corrected himself, and bearing herself as an educated individual—perhaps even aristocratic, if judged by her deportment.  Holmes noted an unhurried grace in her movements that spoke of well-practiced poise—so a woman accustomed to being on public display.  A performer, certainly, but he could not yet discern which of the Muses provided her with inspiration--although he’d have that answer soon enough, once she crossed his threshold.  Most importantly, she was a potential client, and—hopefully--exactly the sort he so needed to break the miserable monotony that threatened to close in upon him.

Still sheltered beneath the cabbie’s umbrella, the young lady turned back to have a word with the remaining passenger, then passed from Sherlock’s sight, presumably to wait upon his doorstep.  The driver then handed down a second woman, olive-skinned, pleasantly full-figured, and shorter than her mistress. Holmes immediately ruled her out as a maid-servant, for she wore street clothes, rather than the traditional kit of that profession, but he was convinced she worked for the first woman in some capacity. This one lingered a moment with the driver, laying a hand on his arm as the two bent their heads closer, sharing a laugh.  A good-natured flirt, then—and very likely, her lady’s chief confidante.  And as his new client was probably unmarried—artists, after all, were notorious for breaching ordinary social conventions; and if the young woman was in need of his help, surely a husband _should_ be there to speak on her behalf—her dear confidante would also serve duty as a chaperone while the lady was a visitor to his rooms.

Holmes was in motion before he even heard the bell ring, first laying aside his violin and bow, and then slipping off his dressing gown as he strode across the room, to grab his suit coat and shrug it on, finally crossing back to the window to await his visitors.  He ticked off the seconds silently, knowing they would be divesting themselves of their damp outwear before proceeding upstairs.  The hushed sound of women’s voices at the base of the stairwell preceded Mrs. Hudson’s familiar tread upon the risers—and then she knocked lightly on the open door, calling out to him as usual, “Oo-whoo,” popping her head inside the room just long enough to tell him, “Client, Mr. Holmes.”

He had positioned himself before the window, ready to make a dramatic turn as his landlady ushered the women into the room.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he intoned as he turned to face his visitors, immediately focusing his attention upon the more refined of the two, “How might I be of assistance to you?”  As he had fully expected, the second woman looked towards the first, waiting upon her for an answer as well.

Despite whatever difficulty had brought her to his door, the young woman exuded calm and confidence, addressing Holmes in a courteous, well-modulated tone that swiftly confirmed his hunch; she was indeed a performer—quite obviously, an actress—and an American to boot, piquing his interest all the more.  “Mr. Holmes, thank you for seeing us this this afternoon.  I have been informed that your skills are nothing short of miraculous—and I, unhappily, must tell you that I come here a woman in _need_ of a miracle of sorts.”

Intrigued by both her direct manner and the well couched riddle she presented, Sherlock stepped closer, motioning both women to come forward, “Please, do be seated, Miss…”

“DeMauro. Tessa DeMauro,” she replied, smiling prettily, and then gesturing towards the shorter woman, who lingered still beside the open door, “And my… _reticent_ …companion is Miss Sondra Guilbe.”  She looked back to her attendant, indulgently urging her into the room, “It’s alright, Sondra.  I’m certain Mr. Holmes will be far more receptive to my story than was Scotland Yard.”  The quiet woman drew a deep breath, grudgingly passing into the sitting room, to stand behind the chair that her lady had taken at the left of the hearth—that chair which was habitually occupied by Dr. John Watson, in the normal course of events when clients presented themselves in 221B.

Observing the pair, Holmes surmised their bond was greater than mere employer and servant of any sort; theirs was a true friendship then—and Miss Guilbe was a highly protective friend, at that.  Fairly certain of her answer, he asked nonetheless, “Would you care to be seated, Miss Guilbe?”

She regarded him coolly, as though sizing him up, “Thank you, but no, Senor Holmes. I prefer to stand.”  Her Spanish accent was quite pronounced, although given her obvious attitude of distrust, Holmes reckoned its strength was as much a ruse for his sake, as it was genuine.  If this was a tactic the women had agreed upon in advance to test him or to suss him out, he had yet to determine.

He gave her a cursory nod with his reply, “As you wish, then,” returning his focus to his prospective client, taking his customary place in the chair opposite from hers.  “So, Miss DeMauro, what brings you to my door today?  You are not the first forced to turn to this agency by the inadequacies of Scotland Yard.”

She pursed her lips in the smallest of smiles, and a hint of mirth lit her eyes before she answered, “Indeed, Mr. Holmes, I’ve come to you as a last resort, hoping you will look upon my plight with the due consideration that befits your reputation.”

He quirked one side of his mouth up into a near smile, an involuntary response to the smoothness of her flattery.  Bright woman, he thought, a mistress of wordplay surely, given her vocation—but a bit naïve to believe a mere honeyed turn of phrase would be sufficient to ensure his interest in her case.  “Then tell me, please, how I might be of assistance, where the authorities have already failed you.”

Tessa nodded and drew a deep, calming breath, then exhaled slowly, prefatory to beginning her tale.  “It all started quite innocuously, Mr. Holmes.  You have to know that to begin with.”  She met his eyes squarely, her tone forthright and self-assured—so surely whatever trouble shadowed her days, she had not allowed it to break her spirit. “I’ve been in London since late summer, contracted for the season with the  AdelphiTheatre.  And it’s been a glorious run, Mr. Holmes,” she told him proudly, “Everything I’d hoped for when I came here.  Everything I’d dreamed performing in Shakespeare’s own city, would be.”

“But something has changed recently,” he prompted her, narrowing his eyes and watching her reaction carefully, “Something alarming enough to cause you to fear for your safety.”

Her eyes widened in surprise at his quick appraisal, “Yes, Mr. Holmes. Exactly so.  In the past several weeks, in fact, I have come to fear for my life.”  He noted a tightening of her jaw, a stiffening of her shoulders, as she sought to keep her distress from spilling forth. “You’re my last hope, Mr. Holmes, and I pray you can solve this before I’m finally forced to break my contract and flee the city altogether.” 

Actress she was, yet Sherlock sensed no hyperbole in her words or attitude; whatever the threat might be, she fully believed her life was at hazard.  “From the beginning, please, Miss DeMauro.  I must have all the facts, even those you might think insignificant.  I can only solve your puzzle if I’m armed with every piece of information you can recall.”

A bit of the tension in the line of her shoulders and the set of her mouth drained away as she realized he took seriously the tale she had to tell.  “It was early November when Miss Guilbe discovered the first, brief note.  As my dresser and personal seamstress, she arrived at the theatre earlier than I that day, ready to prepare my costumes for that evening’s performance.  She found a single piece of paper slipped under the door of my dressing room.”

“I presume it was unsigned, though it professed some nature of the sender’s admiration for you.”

“Why, yes,” she exclaimed, “It did indeed.  But it was actually quite sweet; especially compared with others I’ve received.”

“Curious,” Sherlock murmured, intrigued, “How so?”

“He had written a piece of Shakespeare’s 18th Sonnet.”  Tessa’s voice slipped effortlessly into the pitch and rhythm that was second nature to her craft, “‘ _Shall I compare thee to a_ _summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate._ ”She had closed her eyes in recollection. _“_ And then, further along,” she added, almost fondly, “ _‘Thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of the fair thou ow’st_ ’.” 

“And you found nothing out of the ordinary in such a note?”                

Tessa nodded, “Nothing whatsoever—but then it’s not unusual for a woman in my profession to receive such triflings; floral bouquets, small trinkets, modest tokens of affection, even anonymous love letters.”  She looked down at her ringless hands, and Sherlock was certain that she had discreetly removed any such “tokens” from her person before leaving her flat that morning.  “Eventually, the more ardent of these suitors reveal themselves,” she continued.  Sondra gave a huff of disapproval at that, and as Tessa glanced up at her, Sherlock sensed, but could not read, their unspoken moment of female consultation.  “And at those times, Miss Guilbe and I are handy enough to briskly send them packing on their way--or, in rare cases, I may entertain their suit for a time, in a manner befitting their affection...and my own inclination, of course.” 

“Of course.”  Sherlock pressed his lips together, smiling at the daring, regal lift of her chin (which informed him that any judgement he might make in the matter was irrelevant), and at the formidable image that came to mind, of these two strong-willed women dispatching such unworthy suitors.  “I take it this missive was only the first of many such tokens, which this unknown devotee visited upon you.”

Tessa smiled warmly—and whether in remembrance of such kindly gifts, or at the understanding she read in his eyes, it was a lovely smile all the same.  A woman with a sensible mind--certainly intellectually superior to many men he knew—and pretty enough in appearance to lull such men into thinking her a potentially easy plaything.  Though he considered himself immune to typical feminine charms, Sherlock understood the draw such a combination might have upon the ordinary male heart.  This was a woman who moved confidently through the world, sure of her purpose and as forthright in pursuing her wishes and desires as any man. He couldn’t help but like her—or at least, like what she had chosen to reveal of herself thus far.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, over the next several weeks I would periodically find something new, always left in my absence—there was no predictable pattern, the notes were always most respectable, and the sweets and flowers often delivered by a third party who could tell us nothing of the sender.”  She shrugged and sighed, “In time, I grew to look forward to these little gifts, and found myself wishing my secret admirer would at last reveal himself.”

Holmes was seeing beyond the pattern Tessa described, to the bigger picture:  an expectation on the part of her would-be lover—for that was what this bounder considered himself to be—that she would submit herself to his passions once he made himself known.  “Miss DeMauro, at some point before the new year, his attentions intensified or changed, did they not?”

The women shared a look again, but this one he read easily; surprise that he had stated precisely what had taken place.  Wide-eyed, Tessa turned back to him, “How…how could you know this?”

Sherlock spared her a dispassionate look, “I am informed by a lifetime of observing the weaknesses inherent in men, especially when the favors of the fairer sex are in play.”  To his surprise, a rapid blush spread across her cheeks.

Yet within moments, she rose to the occasion, setting aside any self-consciousness which his statement had awoken in her.  “It was both, Mr. Holmes.  They both intensified _and_ changed.”

“Pray do go on, Miss DeMauro,” he advised her, impressed with her fearless mettle, “The devil will be in the very details.”

Sondra spat out a Spanish curse, the sentiment quite clear, then crossed herself and added less colorfully, “El perro sarnoso es la encarnación del demonio!”

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment, searching his mind for the translation. “The mangy…dog…is the…,” he hesitated and looked to Tessa, unsure for a moment of the exact phrase in English.

“ _The devil incarnate_ , Mr. Holmes,” Tessa finished, sounding serious and resigned, “The devil himself.”  She silently took his measure, searching perhaps for some sympathy, before continuing her tale, “The messages were always brief and cryptic, but in time the gifts became more personal in nature.”

“Yes. I expected as much.”  The pattern of the scoundrel’s behavior conformed to the path Holmes could easily predict “He began to leave you jewelry.”

She gasped, surprised again by his faultless deduction, “Are you a mind reader, Mr. Holmes? Few people outside of this room are even aware of those details!” 

“No, Miss DeMauro, I simply observe the things that most men merely see, enabling me to predict aberrant patterns of behavior.”  He felt an unexpected flush of pleasure at the undisguised admiration in her eyes—though not enough to distract him from the task before him. “The jewelry, then; what did this entail?”

Still looking a little dazzled by his show of brilliance, she ran through the list, “A delicate set of ivory hair combs.  A silver hat pin.  Both of which I have worn several times, but in light of recent events, have set aside.  And a pearl pinky ring, engraved with the initials ‘ _LCS_ ’, which I took to be a family heirloom, and thus refused to wear as it was far too personal a gift.”

“And then…” he prompted her gently, knowing there was gift of even greater value than any in the past.

“And then…” she sighed, having reached a pivotal point in her tale, “And then, on Christmas Eve, during the matinee.  Sometime between the rise of the Act II curtain and my final curtain call, came the most surprising gift of all.”   She closed her eyes, picturing the moment of discovery, then looked back to him, “A lovely pair of songbirds in a gilded cage had been delivered to my dressing room.”  She reached into her velvet purse, removed a cream coloured envelope, and handed it over to him.  “This note was enclosed.”

Sherlock slid the card from the envelope; it looked painstakingly written, in an almost childish hand—very much at odds with the image in Sherlock’s mind, of the man who must’ve penned it:

 

_My sweet Theresa,_

_(_ He flicked his eyes in her direction for just a moment, his question brief “Your given name?”  Tessa nodded, quietly gaging his response as he returned his attention to the letter in his hand.)

_Please accept these lovebirds as a pledge of my love for you. Do you know there are several species of birds that mate for life?  I pray you will find me worthy enough to bind your heart to mine in the same way, when at last I come to you._

_Merry Christmas, my dearest love._

 

As Holmes had expected, there was no signature.  “And so you kept the pair, despite the fear his presumption instilled in you...”

“It was fear that made her keep those birds, Senor Holmes,” Sondra protested, glowering at Sherlock, “Fear of what might happen if she did not!”

“Yes, I understand, Miss Guilbe,” he replied, seeking to restore her calm, “In no way did I mean to imply Miss DeMauro was at fault for any of these events.  I only seek to define this man’s _modus operandi_ —how he chooses to operate--so to better understand him, and catch him out before any real harm should come to your mistress.”

“Oh, but there has already been real harm done, Mr. Holmes.”  Tessa’s eyes filled with genuine pain, “Harm that I brought to the attention of Scotland Yard, but which they have been unable to cure, nor even provide an offer of future protection for me.” 

Moved by her obvious distress, Sherlock leaned forward, aiming to frame his questions more sympathetically.  “What finally caused you to seek help from law enforcement?”

“Well, after the turn of the year, I brought my concerns to theatre management, who were kind enough to instruct the entire staff to keep a more watchful eye for strangers in the backstage area.” She shook her head, confirming that the effort had been futile, “I thought, perhaps, with access denied, the man would lose interest.  And things were better—for a time…”

“Until he found a way to continue his pursuit.” 

“Yes.  He found a way, alright.  Within a few weeks, I arrived home one night to find a note upon my doorstep.”  Tessa bowed her head, and though her hands fretted nervously with the drawstrings of her reticule, her voice remained even and calm, “He confessed his disappointment, but that he understood why I had barred his way; that perhaps his reckless ardor had frightened me.  He said our destiny was forever entwined and vowed to find a way to prove it to me.  And he asked for my patience in the meantime, and promised me the day was near when he would make himself known to me.” When she raised her eyes again to meet Sherlock’s, her lashes were damp—but she did not give in to the tears.  “His tone was so gentle and conciliatory, I dared to hope…to hope I needn’t be so fearful after all.” Her voice grew steely as she exclaimed, “Oh how mistaken I was!”  

Sondra placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and Tessa looked to her gratefully.  “Contar toda la historia, mija. No tienes nada de que avergonzarse,” she told her, her soothing tone a sharp contrast to the few words she had previously spoken; and then she spoke in English so that Sherlock would clearly understand, “ _This_ man, if he is all that the Inspector said he is…he will understand.  _And_ he will find a way to help.”

               

( _to be continued_ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Sondra's statement in the final paragraph: “Tell the whole tale, dear child. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”


	3. sweets oft turn bitter on the tongue

Tessa turned back to him, looking sad and very grave.  “I was foolish and incredibly naïve,” she confessed, “And I _am_ ashamed, Mr. Holmes.  I…I should’ve kept my guard up, despite the tone of his letter.”

The pain in her eyes spoke her regret more eloquently than any words could have, moving him—uncharacteristically—to offer an absolution of sorts.  “I assure you, Miss DeMauro, in cases like this it is rarely the actions of the victim which cause such predatory behavior to escalate.”  Sherlock recognized at once she had stirred a flicker of sympathy within his breast, wondering if she had intended to; and if it was practiced, or part of the natural gifts that suited her in her career.  Regardless of the method, such softness would only be counterproductive.  He leaned back in his chair, distancing himself from any emotion she might inadvertently rouse him to.  “What happened next?”

She drew herself straight, overcoming her shame, and nodded before she continued her tale.  “The gifts and notes resumed, but delivered to my flat instead of the theatre.  Yet their nature had changed, had become a perplexing, sometimes troubling mix.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock interjected, “How so?”

“He would leave a present of sweets or a fragrant nosegay—and follow soon after with something bitter or macabre.”  Tessa grew grim as she ticked off the list of offending items.  “A bouquet of dead roses wrapped with a frayed, black ribbon.  A worm-ridden apple, with a note that read ' _Eve's folly_ '.  A broken mirror in a rusty frame.  A pretty, decoupage box, filled with…” her voice cracked, “…filled with…well, I believe they were rat tails, Mr. Holmes.”  She shivered at the recollection, a grimace of disgust crossing her lovely features.  “There was a scribbled note included with those, written on a greasy paper sack.  The gist of which informing me that even the prettiest of packages might hide true ugliness.”

Sherlock rested his chin upon his steepled fingers, considering the nasty change in the stalker’s attentions.  “Obviously, he was implying that particular gift reflected _your_ nature.” 

Though his reply was absentminded--more a clarification of his deductions than a statement directed towards Tessa--she took his statement quite to heart.  “Obviously,” she repeated, eyes downcast.  Indignant for her lady’s sake, Sondra hissed a colorful curse in Spanish, staring him down without flinching.

Regretting his _faux pas_ , Sherlock corrected himself, “Of course, I did not mean to infer there was any truth in such a comparison, Miss DeMauro.  Your pardon, please.”

She nodded to him graciously, although he could see the sting of the perceived insult had not abated.  “Well whatever the reason, Mr. Holmes, I have been living on tenterhooks since—never knowing what surprise might await me when I return home each evening.  Wondering if I’ve been followed, worrying I am being watched.  I considered hiring a bodyguard, but frankly, the cost is prohibitive on my salary.  And so Miss Guilbe and I have carried on in the only way we know how—looking out for each other, being wary of any strangers that cross our path, being ever vigilant as to any threats that could strike out of the blue.”  Perched on the edge of her seat, her blue eyes suddenly flashed with anger, directed right at him, “Can you imagine, Mr. Holmes, what it is like to be constantly afraid of what danger might lie in wait for one?”

“I imagine it would be like living beneath the Sword of Damocles, ever poised for the fatal cut…”

“Ever poised? Yes, Sir.  Exactly so.”  Agitated, Tessa rose, and faced the mirror above the mantle, “And I’ll thank you not to belittle the extremity I…we…have reached.

Observing the mix of ire and sorrow in her reflection, Sherlock swallowed hard, wishing John Watson was at hand to smooth over his poor choice of words, as was his custom--and one of his chief functions in their partnership.  This day, the Doctor was seeing to his medical practice—an inconvenient, but sadly unavoidable situation, which frustrated Holmes on a fairly regular basis.  “I stand corrected, Miss DeMauro—and I do not mean to make light of your situation.”

She lingered before the hearth a moment, then squared her shoulders before she turned his way.  “I apologize if I seem overly sensitive in this matter, Mr. Holmes.  My experiences in dealing with Scotland Yard have left me feeling patronized and belittled.  Only one of the dozen officers I dealt with were willing to believe my story wasn’t just some dramatic exaggeration, embellished by the vivid imagination necessary for my craft. Or just a case of…” Tessa adopted a gruff tone, in imitation of some blustering detective, “... _typical, female vapors_.”  Her delivery was so strikingly uncanny, Holmes had to suppress a bemused smile.

“I promise you, Miss DeMauro, I take this matter most seriously.  As, apparently, did Detective Inspector Lestrade.”  Enjoying that he had once again surprised both women with his effortless deduction, he watched them exchange astounded looks. “Now—pray continue, as I am sure you have reached the apex of your tale, and the most pressing reason you are here today.”

Assuaged (at least as far as Holmes could tell), but restless with anxiety at what she must at last reveal, Tessa wandered to the window, crossing her arms tightly against herself, as though trying to ward off a chill.  The silence she left in her wake was broken only by the steady tick of sleet hitting the window panes.   

“It was Valentine’s Day,” she began.  Sherlock had shifted in his chair so to observe her tell the most difficult part of her story.  She stood in profile before the window, straight and undaunted, though the pain in her voice was plain enough for even he to recognize.  Tessa drew the drapery panel to the side, allowing her to focus outside the window as she spoke.  “I supped at _The Savoy_ that evening, following my performance. With a gentleman friend.  Miss Guilbe was…” her breath caught a second, before she continued, “…otherwise engaged, so that when I returned to my flat that night, I was alone.  The gentleman had seen me to the door of my building, but I saw nothing out of the ordinary to alert me anything was amiss.  I had my key ready in hand, but even with the dim gaslight down the hall, I could see the door to my flat was ajar; even worse, I could tell by the splintered frame that it had been violently forced open.  Candlelight spilled through the gap.”

Sherlock found himself riveted, not only by her story, but by her trained, expressive voice; by the rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her sentences, and the pace of her speech as she painted the picture she alone was witness to.  “Were you not afraid, Miss DeMauro?” he asked, filling the dramatic pause she’d left between them.

Miss Guilbe huffed a laugh, proudly telling him, “She has the foolhardy courage of a man, Senor Holmes. But _gracias a Dios_ , the wisdom of a woman.”

“My heart was in my throat, Mr. Holmes.  Yet I was prepared to face what lay beyond the threshold.”  She turned her head slightly, just enough to watch for his next reaction.  “I had a small lady’s pistol in my bag, you see.  Loaded and ready for such a contingency.  I would not brook an assault upon my person—nor would I allow my tormentor to escape my rooms unscathed.”

At this, Sherlock allowed himself a grim sort of smile, impressed with her uncommon mettle, “It lies in your purse, even now, I presume.”

Tessa blinked slowly, then nodded and smiled back—but hers was sad and regretful, that she had been forced to such an extreme.  She turned her attention to the window once again.  “I had my pistol at the ready, and I pushed the door completely open.  The villain was gone, thank heavens—but my eyes met a most ghastly sight.”

“Od course,” he murmured, "The lovebirds..."

“The lovebirds, yes.”  Tessa drew a deep breath, closing her eyes, “The cage door had been torn from it’s hinges.  There were feathers…everywhere.  And a bloody trail on the far wall.  One of the birds lay on the floor in a puddle of blood, where it had landed when he flung the poor little thing against the wall.”  She turned to Sherlock once more, clear-eyed despite the grisly details she had just relived, “I found the other shortly after.  He had broken her neck…and left the body on my bed pillow, Mr. Holmes.  On the pillow where I lay my head each night.”

* * *

 

The freezing rain had lessened into a drizzle by the time the women left Holmes’s flat.  He had agreed to take the case, promising to visit the _Adelphi_ , likely in the guise of a potential investor, in order to observe the backstage workings, and identify or eliminate potential suspects.

“Remain most circumspect, ladies,” he had instructed them as they readied for departure, “Do not alter your patterns of behavior, as that could alert him to trouble coming his way.”

“And, Miss DeMauro,” he had added as he saw them out his door, “Do keep that pistol handy.  The mercurial nature of your stalker is a wild card that defies even my most reasoned predictions.”

Relieved, and hopeful that the end of her nightmare was in sight, Tessa settled back against the leather seat of the cab, gazing out of the window, contemplating the hour past.  She sighed and spoke at last, a little dreamily, “I hadn’t expected him to be so…”

Sondra rolled her eyes, “Odd?”

“…handsome…”

“Rude…” Sondra snorted.

“…dashing…”

The little seamstress laughed, “ _Madre de Dios_ , you cannot be serious, Tessa!”

“Oh, but I am,” Tessa protested. “So tall, and fine…and…” she exhaled slowly, “…so very…hmmm…commanding…”

“Well, I don’t like him,” Sondra asserted.

Tessa chortled, teasing her friend, “We…you…don’t _need_ to like him for him to help us.”

“His rooms smelled of damp and tobacco,” she grumbled back, “And there was a human skull on his mantle…what sort of a man would display such a thing!  Would even _have_ such a thing?”

“I spied a violin,” Tessa went on, hearing--but ignoring--her friend’s list of complaints, “…and he had such large, strong-looking hands…with those long, elegant fingers…musician’s hands.  I’ll wager there’s an artist lurking beneath his façade…”

Sondra t’sked several times, then fell silent as she considered her next objection.  “Ha,” she exclaimed, “His eyes linger on one longer than is proper.”

Tessa hummed with satisfaction, then retorted, “I rather liked that about him. A steely, compelling gaze…”

“Impolite!”

 _“No,_ _dulce hermana de mi corazón._ _Él es exigente_. ”  Tessa drew an exaggerated sigh, “He is discerning.  And very…regal” 

“You are impossible,” Sondra muttered, “But you will have your way; you always do.”

Lost in pleasant reverie, Tessa’s voice grew soft.  “He was as brilliant as they say, and so…precise…yet he felt—to me--like power restrained…like a panther ready to strike if provoked.”  She shivered a bit in her speculation, “I wonder what sort of heart beats beneath all those stiff layers of finery.” 

Exasperated, Sondra wagged her head. “Suit yourself, Theresa,” she replied, exaggerating the roll of the ‘r’, as she always did when admonishing her friend.  “Though he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man suited _pora_ _una_ _aventura_ _amorosa_.”

 “Oh, Sondra, you know as well as I, that even the most stoic of men can be persuaded towards a…softer sentiment.”

“Or something harder…”

Tessa laughed wholeheartedly, “Trust you to let your mind go there!”

“Knowing yours will get there before too long,” Sondra countered, laughing as well.

Playing at innocence, Tessa batted her lashes, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean, Sondra dear.”  And then, she grew dreamy again, her voice nearly too quiet to hear, “Though he does have the most captivating eyes, don’t you think?”

 

( _to be continued_ ) 


End file.
